The Art of War
by her name is erika
Summary: War is a messy art she will prepare for. It's a good thing she loves art then, isn't it? / Or, Victoria Newman about to embark on the longest war of her life.


**The Art of War**  
**show:** Young and the Restless  
**central character:** Victoria Newman  
**Summary:** War is a messy art she will prepare for. It's a good thing she loves art then, isn't it? / Or, Victoria Newman about to embark on the longest war of her life.  
**notes:** This is just something I wanted to get out of my system, because the show is about to be all about Adam's return and I wanted to shine some light on Victoria's thought process. It goes beyond Adam's return and explores other themes that the show has not touched on because…you know, patriarchy. And besides, my hope for Victoria is that if there is a wall of patriarchy and conditional love at Newman Enterprises, she should fight for it – and herself. She's been there the longest and worked the hardest, while being loyal to her detriment. So, enjoy this little piece. I gave her actual friends and a healthy support system because why not? She deserves one that doesn't just limit her to family.  
**disclaimer:** Nope. Not mine.

* * *

Self-care is hard, not because she understands what it means. It's in the word itself, obviously.

It's hard because Victoria thrives when she feels just enough stress and pressure. She welcomes the adrenaline. It's the kind of adrenaline that drives her. She can negotiate new business deals, chase down others in foreign lands while closing other deals with that ice and hard line she's known for. The unspoken patriarchy is never silent around her but Victoria isn't foolish enough to think the corporate glass ceiling is cracked just enough. Her self-care is not to sit around, wait and play the long time. For women like her, women like Ashley, even England's virgin Queen Elizabeth I, it isn't enough to wait while inhaling testosterone that suffocates. So, instead of waiting for a seat at the table, Victoria will work, negotiate, stomp through any barrier, and be ruthless enough to just take the whole table with her. She has no choice.

Isn't it that self-care enough?

No. It's her life, her routine, a piece of her sanity. Nothing that will alleviate her stress in any conducive way, she reasons under Dr. Mosley's neutral, yet observant gaze. So, it's not really a way of self-care at all in the grand scheme of things.

—

She's not a violent person. She doesn't like guns — actually hates them. Marital arts aren't her cup of tea, no matter how necessary it is, and yes, it is absolutely necessary. Every action she does manifested in physical action, and taking root in her mind, is necessary.

How many rulers get blood on their hands? How many secrets are kept because power is the ultimate goal? It's the same thing. Victoria doesn't want to hurt anybody, but war is a messy art she will prepare for. It's a good thing she loves art then, isn't it?

She doesn't tell anyone about the semi-automatic nestled in a silver safe deep in the bowels of this building, not even if her father knows. Suppose the Great Victor Newman happens to not know everything. There's mace in her purse, a stun gun in her glove compartment she keeps locked when the kids are in the car and a crowbar she will use if needed, in the trunk of her car.

Of course, she's relieved Adam survives. He's her brother. She doesn't want death for him, but she's even more relieved the bullet isn't from _her _gun. She practices enough at the gun range to get used to the recoil, the way the gun feels in her hands and she stops being at the sound. It's like the archery she learns in boarding school. Co-ordinate her breaths with the timing of pulling the trigger while keeping one eye honed on the target and her arm steady. The bullet that nearly – only nearly – kills Adam isn't from her, and that's about it.

Sometimes, in her darkest moments of insanity, she wishes it is.

And in the span of a blink it's gone. She doesn't have to indulge in that monstrous place pushing itself up to the forefront of her head space. It's so close and within reach she can touch it. _Not today. Not now._

—

In the meantime, she prefers to take Buck, a stubborn black stallion by personality but really sweet when trust is built with him, out riding after it rains. The air is dewy with the grass and foliage brighter. The sky is just about to burst with colour when touched by a rising sun's rays. It's when Victoria is most at peace, and take her to a time where life is most simple. Well, whatever simple by Newman standards means.

Buck is brought to the stables, displaced from another horse fire and immediately antagonistic. The stable hands don't quite know what to do with him because he's very skittish and it's almost dangerous for someone his size. He doesn't respond well to commands or do well with order and structure. Victoria looks at this horse and sees in his eyes, trauma and fear. So, she volunteers to take him. She volunteers to work with him, visit him, and slowly get him to trust her, even be stubborn right back and put her foot down with him. Now, Buck is her horse only because she's the only one he listens to and the only one who can ride him. It's another thing she can't quite forgive JT for. The stable fire is meant to frame her father for a murder that never really happens, but she worries about Buck being in yet another stable fire and being set off. Elle is a strong, beautiful resilient horse and bounces back from it, but she takes extra time to spend time with Buck and in turn, try to heal herself. The threads of anger twist themselves into strong cords of braided metal and damnit, she understands. Life isn't fair. Life will never be quite fair, but she's getting back to not wallowing. Buck will be fine. He will survive, and be the spirited horse she adores, and so will she because she has no other choice.

—

"I'm…not a violent person, Rashida," Victoria insists, almost wishing she doesn't tentatively agree to this and allows herself to be a student of self-defense. She humors Dr. Hastings and it even make her feel better, but this is a whole other entity. She inhales and then exhales, eyes sweeping over the downstairs gym studio across from town. Rashida Walker is a policer officer from the Sex Crimes Unit. She's funny, loud and flamboyant with a slight Southern accent in her tone. Victoria raises her blue eyes and shakes her head. "This is a waste of time. I can't."

Rashida places her hands on her hips, with dark narrowed eyes.

"Victoria, I've known you since our boys became best friends. Reed…" she sighs, jaw set with a glance gets away from her, like for once, this woman who has no trouble finding words, is grappling at finding ones that make sense. Rashida exhales. "Your boy is…something. Did you know that while you went on trial, he called me? Not Lou. _Me_. I'm not going to betray his confidence, but most of what he felt was about you, his dad — who I had the pleasure of seeing, alive post-surgery — and what he was going to do now, his frustrations… He's my granddaughter's godfather. Zahra loves him," Rashida says, softening slightly. "I thought I was pregnant with another boy, but I got Ramona so Reed is the closest thing to a brother my kid has. Before he left Genoa City, you should know that he was mad at you but he loved you. Just like he loves his dad. He let Chief Williams have it for using his dad when your father had no charges and then dragged the DA for subjecting you to all of…this shit," she discloses with a hint of amusement. "If I have to be honest with you, she's a legal fraud and advocates for no one. Reed's like family, which makes you family, which makes it right that I teach you how to fight. Like, _really_ fight."

"I… I didn't know all of that, and I'm grateful you were there for him when he clearly didn't want me to be…" a stab of jealousy strikes her. It's more of a pin prick of instinctual envy but she knows Rashida is a wonderful person, a strong woman and knows what motherhood means. Fighting is in this woman's blood. Her mother is a Black Panther before the phrase, "Wakanda Forever", becomes an international battle cry of billion dollar cinematic proportions. Her father walks in civil rights marches of the 50s and the 60s in the deep south, and Victoria is in awe. She's envious all she has of familial anecdotes is one grandfather who abandons a little boy in an orphanage and another who abuses his wife and rapes his young daughter. Her aunt Casey. She doesn't know too much about her grandmother, Barbara. She wishes she did.

Rashida looks at her. It's a look that cuts like a sword. Maybe that's the point. "The last thing Reed asked me to do after dragging the Chief and District Attorney to hell was ask me to look out for you. He's a kid and did what he could to look out for both of his parents. I'm not stepping on your toes, Victoria, but I promised him," Rashida explains, and before Victoria can think, finds her feet before swept from under her. She lands on the padded ground hard and her breath almost stops in her chest, an ache in her lower back.

"Shit…" she curses, looking up to see Rashida staring up at her with an expression that dares her to move.

Anger coils itself tightly in her lower back and claws at her chest. It's Buck, a powerful creature who pounds his way through the pasture, and rearing back at anyone who dare get close. It's the sleeping beast that wakes while JT lies vulnerable because it's all because one preventable tumour. It's the white-hot rage that replaces the blood in her veins as she remembers every veiled scolding from her father. It's the shadow of loneliness that falls on her when love goes horrible awry for her, stupidly hoping for otherwise. It's the despair that leaves Victoria screaming in her bathroom as Nick stabs her in the front when she wishes it's the back. It's the frustration that makes her head pound because all she wants is Reed is to understand.

It's the magnified, amplified annoyance that has her looking up at this woman and, friendship or no, feeling like she will never look upwards at anyone ever again.

Victoria pulls herself into a sitting position, while Rashida crouches down to her level with her. A smile pulls at her lips.

"You're fucking pissed off," she observes with a laugh.

"Well, yes. What the hell, Rashida?"

"That was you being caught slipping," she replies, face turning serious. "You got angry with me. At your position, the idea that I left you looking up, and then you put it down. First rule," Rashida says, holding up a finger, "don't ever put that anger down. Here, let it drive you. If you put that anger down even for a minute, that perpetrator won't hesitate to leave your kids without their mama."

"I haven't agreed to anything."

"You're here. That's agreement enough."

"Nothing, contractually."

Rashida rolls her eyes in response, "Rule number two: understand that self-defense isn't about violence. It's about knowing how to get out of dangerous situations safely and protect yourself. The Newman way of protection would be what? Big hulking security men who really don't know how to do their jobs."

"Our security is…fine."

"That's the hill you want to die on?"

"The security is fine," she repeats, and tries to mean it.

Rashida raises an eyebrow to question her and then relents, throwing her hands up in surrender. "Okay. I mean, for the price that your dad most likely drops, you should have a codename and snipers around you, but what does my middle-class ass know?" she directs going back to the rules while Victoria forces the urge to roll her eyes down where her other less than stellar impulses lie. "Continuation of rule two, which is simple. The crux of self-defense isn't violence by itself. It's a defensive answer in relation to an act of violence committed against you. For example, I want you to come at me like I've said something really offensive and you're about to slap me."

"What?"

"Come at me. Think of who or what makes you angry, and hold on to it."

Victoria nods, because sure, why not? What the hell does she have to lose? She closes her eyes, and tunes in to seeing the necklace of purple bruises staring back at her in the bathroom, the nonchalance in her brother's face when his tunnel vision diminishes her in another battle between father and son. Collateral damage is all she is. A casualty that never has her quite the same and working everyday to remember Nick is the closest sibling she has and not her enemy. Victoria holds every reproach given by her father close until it's one giant clap of thunder. There's a red haze swirling around her and Victoria doesn't know the origin. She only knows it's rare for her to be engulfed in this smoke and the only one to make it pay is to silence the thunder and scream until it's louder than the static. She hears words tumble out of that lying mouth. Victoria wants to tear clumps of that red hair out and watch her gasp for breath.

It's instinctual and primal but Victoria lets her right hand go flying, and Rashida blocks it quickly and deftly with a straight arm upwards.

Then something within Victoria snaps so loudly she's sure it's audible. She's stepped outside of herself and doesn't realize what she's done until she unclenches a fist and Rashida stares at her wide-eyed, rubbing her jaw. "Holy shit," the detective says, in a quiet whisper. "Did you… did you just right hook me… in the jaw?"

Oh, God.

Damnit.

"This is why this is a bad idea. Rashida, I'm so sorry. I didn't…" Victoria apologizes, profusely. "I need to get you ice for your face… I can't believe I — "

"That hook delivery. Your form is better than most. You're small as hell, too," Rashida rubs her jaw once again, and breaks out into a wide smile. "Victoria, you need to stop. Stop talking. I've seen worse. Been hit worse. My jaw will be fine, but now, I don't have to teach you shit from scratch."

"You don't?"

"Hell no. You have a very good foundation here. I teach self-defense to domestic abuse survivors at the community centre on Saturday mornings. So, I'm certified. But you're the perfect student. Let me work with you a few times a week. You have something that's just been waiting to come out. You have a solid baseline here and if we work together and you go all in, you'll be surprised at what you can actually do," Rashida pitches to her. "That hook wasn't anything but pure, unadulterated rage. It came from some part of you, you haven't explored yet. You don't have to tell me why, but you haven't. This environment is the best way to explore that and have that healthy release."

Victoria stares at her hands and then at Rashida's face and how earnest her eyes are. Rashida is her first friend outside of her family, and she guesses she owes Louis for falling out of that tree years ago, and Reed, for picking up where they stop effortlessly. Honestly, she has a whole club of women she gets along with and shares the common denominator of their children being this tight knit group of friends. Victoria never thinks of having lasting female friendships until Sharon suggests she go for it, take up Denise's invite to join the rest at Society and see what happens. It does work. She has a really fun time. No one judges her or makes her feel as though they have to be cordial to her. They don't pity her either even though they know of recent events and it's refreshing. Denise Marshall, Corrine's mother, is a teacher at Walnut Grove, instead of Genoa City High. She has five children with Corrine being her oldest and openly gay. Victoria tells her Corrine is a perpetually joyful young lady and gets used to hearing the kids sing in the house and fill her music with music in progress. Eleanor, Stephanie's mother and the governor's wife, comes from the same upper-class world she's born into and relates to her the best. She tells Victoria one day at Crimson Lights that she respects the bond that Reed and Stephanie have with one another. Reed bring Stephanie some much needed peace and levity and in turn, Victoria tells Eleanor she doesn't quite understand her daughter. However, she's a wonderful question mark of a person who really looks out for Reed and intrigues her two other children. For that, she is grateful.

Rashida blows at an impatient breath, but it's with good intentions. Victoria knows this by now.

"I'm more of a yoga kind of girl. What today has shown me is that I'm still angry. I…" she admits, combing her hair back to stomp out whatever flames remain. "I… have anger inside of me and it goes beyond just JT. It's just anger on top of hurt that's just been festering there," she finds herself misty eyed, and whips the tears away. "I teach my kids all the time to not to hate anybody, but I feel…"

"Poisonous?" Rashida supplies, and touches her arm.

"Exactly. That's the word: _poisonous_. It's like I'm in this…limbo. I'm an Ice Queen, so I actually show that I have feelings. If I show I'm vulnerable, then I'm suddenly perceived as weak so I shut down to be stronger. I'm angry all the time. It's lingering there."

"And you're allowed to be that way. After what you've been through, you're allowed to be angry. There's no way to navigate what domestic abuse is, and life afterwards. Don't think of it as lingering anger. Think of how you feel right as a new way of survival because you are nobody's victim."

Something resonates in Victoria there. Rashida's right. Victoria isn't anybody's pawn, or anyone's chess piece on a chessboard she finds herself in. She's nobody's romantic trial and error, and just because she's the Ice Queen, it doesn't mean she's not capable of causing infernos.

Victoria meets Rashida's eyes with a steely look of determination and agrees. "I'm in. I'm ready."

"Damn right, you are."

Three months later, she's learning, getting physically stronger and values the mental strength that grows too. Last week, she discovers just how sharp her claws, fangs and reflexes get. The claws and fangs are metaphorical, of course. The quickening reflexes are very true. She surprises herself at times.

It makes Victoria feel incredibly powerful and Billy, unable to keep his hands off her.

—

Dr. Mosley holds her sleek black pen between her forefinger and middle finger, balancing a leather-covered notebook on her crossed leg. Victoria sighs, staring her bare left ring finger and shakes off the lingering answer to a heavy question of many. One thing at a time. One day at a time. One moment at a time. Slow and steady. Her blue eyes glance down at the rectangular sketch book, already opened to a fresh white page. She takes a freshly sharpened coloured pencil and begins.

No, she reasons, and puts it back. Victoria ponders and picks up another pencil. It's black.

"You told me about your time in Florence," Dr. Mosley says. "You mentioned you developing a love of art."

Victoria looks at her, a small smile on her lips she can't push back as she remembers waking up to the early morning sounds of church bells. The sun rises just behind the Duomo and just at the peak, rays glint at the most rounded part of the dome as more greets her through her bedroom window and caress her face. It's as she tells Brandon, she does haunt the art of renaissance and rebirth, walks along beach by the Tuscany Sea and learns how to love and lose. She learns that this place is her own Garden of Eden — a place that is too magical to be an actual place, a place where she finds her desires and passions awakened and others dormant on American soil.

"Yes," she answers, with a nod and finds her eyes drawn back to the lines, strokes and shading. "Florence was my place. I…loved it," she tilts her head to give shade, depth, and perception. "I only loved two people there. I was engaged," she confesses, with a sigh and stops letting her mind unspool on the page to tuck an errant tendril of hair behind her left ear. "He was worldly, charming, powerful, but an enigma at the same time. I could never quite understand him but he saw something in me. He was one of the first people to understand me after I left Genoa City."

"When you say enigma, what do you mean?"

Victoria looks at her therapist through mascara coated lashes, a warm blush on her cheeks.

"He was worldly in every sense, Dr. Mosley," she explains, on the fringes of the truth. Her truth. "He was gentle, kind, and we laughed a lot, but Sebastian Forsythe was sharp and merciless. Absolutely ruthless. He was either sunny or stormy. Most women would let that drive them away, but it only appealed me. It made me," she finds herself getting wistful, "love him more. He used to tell me all the time that women were powerful, that of course, men — they had alpha male energy, strategy, brute strength and…" she chuckles, taking on his British accent down to the lilt and cadence, "…charm can only go so far."

Dr. Mosley nods. She's listening. It's in her body language.

She continues, speaking normally and seriously now. "He called the woman…otherworldly. Warriors. It stuck with me after all this time. I ended my engagement to him, and came back to Genoa City feeling as I had the capacity to destroy, and wanted more of it. I didn't come here after two years, cooled off. I came home angrier ready to burn it all to the ground… and then…" she trails off. She finishes, quietly, "…my niece was fourteen and she just died. Just like that," Victoria snaps her fingers, forgetting about her art for a moment, "my niece's beautiful life was cut short by a car accident. My brother shattered. I watched Sharon struggle with letting go of her child and what I felt started not to matter. Now…"

A knot forms in her temple and she resumes drawing to untangle it.

Adam returns from the dead and by day three, Victoria's usual panic becomes steel-like proactivity. She's not dissecting why her father needs them to welcome his prodigal son home. Victoria doesn't have the time or the energy and it's a waste of both. She's methodically building her own path to where she deserves to be — not by virtue of being first-born, not because she, too, carries her father's name but because she bleeds, sweats and contributes to what Newman Enterprises is and knows she will lead it to what it can be. She remembers Katie's dance recital is in a couple days, how she visits classes watching her daughter register the steps in her mind and, when she makes a mistake, the determination to learn it until it's right. If her nearly five year old daughter can understand making the same errors in the same environment, is insanity, surely, she can — and in a moment of merciful clarity, Victoria finally does. A grown woman and the mother of three children, and she finally understand what she must do. Like Rashida says, it's all about survival and she makes peace with using any means necessary.

"And now…do you still feel you have the capacity to, as you phrased it, destroy?"

She takes a pause and then comes to the realization that it's always there. Victoria buries that part of herself in an ornately shaped box. Then she covers it in a hard layer of soft snow and hard ice beneath because she'll burn if it's free. If destruction breaks through this pretty box, it will be claws, teeth, and gun smoke. The blade of a sword glinting back at her moving deftly in the grip of deft, and quick hands. It's dangerous, this drive to kill this unseen, unknown enemy of hers.

Victoria allows a smile to pull at her lips and she shrugs. "Yes, Dr. Mosley. After 14 years of being dormant, it's come back. "I just wish all of these people in my life didn't awaken it. If it was a stranger, I could brush it off. But I guess it was bound to happen from JT to Nick to my father to on some level, my mother, the DA — now her, I don't have particularly good things there… When people say they were pushed to make a string of choices that may have long reaching consequences, I understand," she says, eyes focused on whatever creation comes together on the page. A crease in her brow appears her strokes alternate from soft, and smooth as if formed with careful hands to short and rough as if she's breaking more fragile things around her. To this day, she doesn't know what shatters first: the glass vase of congratulatory flowers against the floor or her heart. Victoria looks at the page with a careful eye. It's done, complete. There's nothing more of herself to give here. She cannot open this artistic vein any deeper and bleed, she resolves, putting the black pencil in the box and closes the sketchbook. Victoria draws enough. She cries enough, navigate heartbreak, and tentatively celebrates the good, too. "Something dark inside of me was bound to be touched somehow, and I question if I want to put it back."

Dr. Mosley stops writing. A perfectly arched brow goes up, face pensive.

"And what would happen if you put this…darkness down?"

"The status quo continues. The hierarchy in the universe my father built would be as it was. That's not an option anymore," Victoria answers coolly, the familiar feeling of ice freezing her blood calming her. She feels the column of her spine slowly wrap itself in steel. She smiles, easily. "Why would I let go of something that's been transformative in the best way to my life?"

"I've seen the news…"

"Ah, yes. My brother's third return from the dead and his shooting."

"And this hierarchy in your family. Now that Adam is back, it changes things. I'm getting that from you right now."

"If you're implying that I'm worried and anxious, I'm going to respectfully tell you you're wrong. I've been working out almost every day after work. I'm getting physically stronger, my anxiety is always non-existent and the self-defense aspect doesn't hurt. I've discovered that if I don't give my father the chance to bait me," she states curtly, and means it this time, "he can't interfere in the contingency plan I have to protect my interests. I'm fighting for myself. And really, I've never hid how I felt about Adam. When he was alive, I resented him. When he died, I didn't feel anything. We were acrimonious at best and I'm using that word generously. Very generously. Any sadness I felt was for my young nephew, and my father. He was heartbroken. Any parent would be."

Dr. Mosley clarifies with a knit between her brows. "I see…and how did you think your brother died?"

"A cabin explosion, but you knew that."

She's making an active effort to make appointments. Leaning into the dark stuff she's afraid of drudging up.

"I didn't cry at his memorial if that's what you want to know. I didn't care enough to and it would have been insulting to start," Victoria sighs. "I'm not a monster, Dr. Mosley, but I wasn't going to mourn for one either. Sure, I'm glad he survived, but it's just how I feel."

There's stone encasing her heart, little by little, but she needs the pieces of soft flesh for her children. She needs the soft, warm pieces for a man she doesn't hesitate to love anymore. She doesn't want the same narrative where she and Billy are concerned. If he can give his messy, bruised heart to her, then she can show him this new woman as she evolves and grows. "There's an element of myself I feel is different. If I put these…feelings down, I'm not doing anyone any good but not owning my feelings. I can still act on whatever I'm feeling in a healthy way. Being here is the first step. Isn't that the point of this?"

"Of course. Speaking of owning feelings, I noticed you mentioned loving two people in Italy?"

"Her name was Sabrina," she confesses, remembering dark hair framing a face with dark brown eyes with a glimmer of sophistication and adventure. Victoria remembers deep conversations about different artists, the subjectivity of art, close conversations about what is horrifying and makes the heart race is also triggered by beauty that leaves one awestruck feeling exactly the same. She remembers the spot of charcoal that goes across Sabrina's cheek and her hair as it cascades all around her. Here she is, this woman born into privilege with the ability to attain the rarest jewels, and the most exquisite pieces of art from all parts of the world if she wishes, but there's a diamond in the rough right here. This woman who is not born into power and prestige, and armed with nothing but her intellect and brilliance. And her mind wonders off to that studio apartment where she kisses Sabrina and it's one that marks her for the rest of her life, even though there are other loves. She remembers Sabrina stealing kisses from her, slipping away to make love while Florence's sun descends to touch the Arno just as they both explode into breathy pleas for more and whispered words of gratitude because it's enough. She closes her eyes, and shaking her head, not wanting to remember what happens after. Blue eyes lock with Dr. Mosley's and Victoria says, plainly with a touch of reflection. "I…cared for her. I was with her for seven months. I don't know how that applies to my sexual orientation or if it even does — and maybe that's most irrelevant part," she corrects herself. "I'm just a person, and I'm slowly learning. I loved Sabrina. She loved me. I lost her, just like I've lost others. That's all there is to know. I've dealt with it."

"That's good."

Mr. Mosley stands with a professional smile. "It seems our time's up for this session."

"Thank you for everything."

Victoria stands up as well, but is unsure if she can take the sketchbook home with her.

The therapist picks up on this. "It's up to you if you want to do with it. As long as it serves its purpose, the decision is yours."

Before she leaves, Victoria makes her first decision of many and takes care of a question that lingers. It's not important. Just necessary.

"I think… I'll elect to take it home with me. Drawing during the session helped me."

"See you at our next session," Dr. Mosley says, as Victoria slides the sketchbook into her tote bag where it comes to rest against a Newman Enterprises folder or two. "If you feel any differently and need to talk before the next appointment, don't hesitate to come by."

Victoria adjust the strap of her bag and appreciates Dr. Mosley fitting her in for this morning. She does so much for her already, and more than anything, gives her a kind of clarity that feels liberating. It's like an invisible hand turns a switch on — or maybe, it's in the off position, she doesn't know — but she only knows she leaves, knowing that it's time.

—

_fin. _


End file.
